They pinched her feet, they singed her hair,
They screwed it up with pins;-
O never mortal suffered more
In penance for her sins.

So, when my precious aunt was done,
My grandsire brought her back;
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth
Might follow on the track;)
"Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook
Some powder in his pan,
"What could this lovely creature do
Against a desperate man!"

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,

Nor bandit cavalcade

Tore from the trembling father's arms
His all-accomplished maid.
For her how happy had it been!

And Heaven had spared to me
To see one sad, ungathered rose
On my ancestral tree.

EVENING BY A TAILOR.

Day hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, That is like padding to earth's meagre ribs, And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid, That binds the skirt of night's descending robe! The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, Do make a music like to rustling satin, As the light breezes smoothe their downy nap.

Ha! what is this that rises to my touch
So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage?
It is, it is that deeply injured flower,
Which boys do flout us with;-but yet I love thee,
Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout.
Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright
As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath
Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air;
But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau,
Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences,
And growing portly in his sober garments.

Is that a swan that rides upon the water!
O no, it is that other gentle bird,
Which is the patron of our noble calling.
I well remember, in my early years,

When these young hands first closed upon a goose;
I have a scar upon my thimble finger,
Which chronicles the hour of young ambition.
My father was a tailor, and his father,

And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors;
They had an ancient goose,-it was an heir-loom
From some remoter tailor of our race.
It happened I did see it on a time
When none was near, and I did deal with it,
And it did burn me,-oh, most fearfully!

It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs,
And leap elastic from the level counter,
Leaving the petty grievances of earth,
The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears,
And all the needles that do wound the spirit,
For such a pensive hour of soothing silence.
Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress,
Lays bare her shady bosom; I can feel
With all around me;-I can hail the flowers
That sprig earth's mantle, and yon quiet bird,
That rides the stream, is to me as a brother.
The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets,
Where Nature stows away her loveliness.
But this unnatural posture of the legs
Cramps my extended calves, and I must go
Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion.

mas chimes;

They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true,

That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar,-so runs the ancient tale;

'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail;

And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail,

He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.

'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame,

Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for

the same;

And oft, as on the ancient stock another twig was found,

'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.

But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine,

Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine, But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps,

He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps.

And then, of course, you know what's next,-it left the Dutchman's shore

With those that in the Mayflower came,-a hundred souls and more,

Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,

To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.

'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim,

When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim;

The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword,

And all his sturdy men at arms were ranged about the board.

He poured the fiery Hollands in,-the man that never feared,

He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;

And one by one the musketeers,-the men that fought and prayed,—

All drank as 't were their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew,

He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo;

And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin;

"Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin!”

A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows,

A thousand rubs had flattened down each little che

Drink, John, she said, 'twill do you good,-poor

child you'll never bear

This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air;

And if,-God bless me,-you were hurt, 't would keep away the chill;

So John did drink,-and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;

I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to bring its symLol here.

'Tis but the fool that loves excess;-hast thou a drunken soul?

Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!

I love the memory of the past,-its pressed yet fragrant flowers,

The moss that clothes its broken walls,-the ivy on its towers,

Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,—my eyes grow moist and dim,

To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight

to me;

The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be;

And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin,

That dooms one to those dreadful words,-" My dear, where have you been?”

THE PILGRIM'S VISION.

In the hour of twilight shadows
The Puritan looked out;

He thought of the "bloudy Salvages"
That lurked all round about,
Of Wituwamet's pictured knife

And Pecksuot's whooping shout; For the baby's limbs were feeble, Though his father's arms were stout.

His home was a freezing cabin

Too bare for the hungry rat,

Its roof was thatched with ragged grass
And bald enough of that;
The hole that served for casement

Was glazed with an ancient hat;
And the ice was gently thawing
From the log whereon he sat

Along the dreary landscape
His eyes went to and fro,

The trees all clad in icicles,

The streams that did not flow;

A sudden thought flashed o'er him,-
A dream of long ago,-

He smote his leathern jerkin
And murmured "Even so !"
"Come hither, God-be-Glorified,
And sit upon my knee,
Behold the dream unfolding,
Whereof I spake to thee

By the winter's hearth in Leyden
And on the stormy sea;
True is the dream's beginning,—
So may its ending be!
'I saw in the naked forest

Our scattered remnant cast
A screen of shivering branches
Between them and the blast;
The snow was falling round them,
The dying fell as fast;

I looked to see them perish.

When lo, the vision passed.
Again mine eyes were opened;—
The feeble had waxed strong,
The babes had grown to sturdy men.
The remnant was a throng;

By shadowed lake and winding stream
And all the shores along,

The howling demons quaked to hear
The Christian's godly song.

"They slept,-the village fathers,
By river, lake, and shore,
When far adown the steep of Time
The vision rose once more;

I saw along the winter snow
A spec al column pour,
And high above their broken ran
A tattered flag they bore.
"Their Leader rode before them,
Of bearing calm and high,
The light of Heaven's own kindling
Throned in his awful eye;
These were a Nation's champions
Her dread appeal to try;
God for the right! I faltered,
And lo, the train passed by.

"Once more;--the strife is ended,
The solemn issue tried,

The Lord of Hosts, his mighty arm
Has helped our Israel's side;
Grey stone and grassy hillock

Tell where our martyrs died,
But peaceful smiles the harvest,
And stainless flows the tide.

"A crash,-as when some swollen cloud
Cracks o'er the tangled trees!
With side to side, and spar to spar,
Whose smoking decks are these!

I know Saint George's blood-red cross,
Thou Mistress of the Seas,-
But what is she, whose streaming bars
Roll out before the breeze?

"Ah, well her iron ribs are knit,

Whose thunders strive to quell
The bellowing throats, the blazing lipe,
That pealed the Armada's knell!
The mist was cleared,—a wreath of stars
Rose o'er the crimsoned swell,
And, wavering from its haughty peak,
The cross of England fell!

"O trembling Faith! though dark the morn,
A heavenly torch is thine;
While feebler races melt away,
And paler orbs decline,

Still shall the fiery pillar's ray
Along the pathway shine,

To light the chosen tribe that sought
This Western Palestine!

"I see the living tide roll on ;

It crowns with flaming towers The icy capes of Labrador,

The Spaniard's land of flowers!' It streams beyond the splintered ridge That parts the Northern showers; From eastern rock to sunset wave The Continent is ours!"

He ceased, the grim old Puritan,—
Then softly bent to cheer

The pilgrim-child whose wasting face
Was meekly turned to hear;
And drew his toil-worn sleeve across.
To brush the manly tear

fourteen housand volumes. The collection of MSS., of which a catalogue has been issued, is peculiarly valuable and well arranged. The Maryland State MSS. are numerous, including the "Gilmor Papers," presented to the Society by Robert Gilmor, embracing the Early and Revolutionary Period. The "Peabody Index," The "Peabody Index," prepared by Henry Stevens at the expense of George Peabody, the banker in London, is a catalogue in eleven costly volumes of 1729 documents, in the State Paper office in London, of the Colonial Period. The Library has also a collection of Coins and Medals, and a Gallery of Art, which is a nucleus for the exhibitions in the city, and which has an excellent feature in a series of good copies of the works of the Old Masters.

LITERARY INFLUENCES IN AMERICA.

It was remarked by Mr. Legaré,- one of the purest scholars given by America to the world-in advising a young friend, at the outset of his life, that, "nothing is more perilous in America than to be too long learning, or to get the name of bookish." Great, indeed, is the experience contained in this short paragraph! It is a sentence which nearly banishes a man from the fields of wealth, for it seems to deny the possibility of the concurrent lives of thought and action. The "bookish" man cannot be the business" man! And such, indeed, has been the prevailing tone of public sentiment for the last thirty or forty years, since it became the parental habit to cast our children into the stream of trade to buffet their way to fortune, as soon as they were able either to make their labor pay, or to relieve their parents from a part of the expense of maintenance. Early taught that the duty of life is incompatible with the pursuits of a student, the young man whose school years gave promise of renown, speedily finds himself engaged in the mechanical pursuit of a business upon which his bread depends, and either quits for ever the book he loved, or steals to it in night and secrecy, as Numa did to the tangled crypt when he wooed Fgeria!

In the old world there are two classes to which Literature can always directly appeal,-government, and the aristocracy. That which is elegant, entertaining, tasteful, remotely useful, or merely designed for embellishment, may call successfully on men who enjoy money and leisure, and are ever eager in the pursuit of new pleasures. This is particularly the case with individuals whose revenues are the mere alluvium of wealth,-the deposit of the golden tide flowing in with regularity,-but not with those whose fortunes are won from the world in a struggle of enterprise. Such men do not enjoy the refreshing occupation of necessary labor, and consequently, they crave the excitement of the intellect and the senses. Out of this want, in Europe, has sprung the Opera, that magnificent and refined luxury of extreme wealth-that sublime assemblage of all that is exquisite in dress, decoration, declamation, melody, picture, motion, art,-that marriage of music and harmonious thought, which depends, for its perfect success, on the rarest organ of the human frame. The patrons of the Opera have the time and the money to bestow as rewards for their gratification; and yet, I am still captious enough to be discontented with a patronage, springing, in a majority of cases, from a desire for sensual relaxation, and not offered as a fair recompense in the barter that continually occurs in this world between talent and money. I

From the Discourse, "Commerce, Literature, and Art."

would level the mind of the mass up to such an appreciative position, that, at last, it would regard Literature and Art as wants, not as pastimes,—as the substantial food, and not the frail confectionery of life.

And what is the result, in our country, of this unprotective sentiment towards Literature? The answer is found in the fact that nearly all our young men whose literary tastes and abilities force them to use the pen, are driven to the daily press, where they sell their minds, by retail, in paragraphs;where they print their crudities without sufficient thought or correction;-where the iron tongue of the engine is for ever bellowing for novelty;-where the daily morsel of opinion must be coined into phrases for daily bread,—and where the idea, which an intelligent editor should expand into a volume, must be condensed into an aphoristic sentence.

Public speaking and talk, are also the speediest mediums of plausible conveyance of opinion in Republic. The value of talk from the pulpit, the bar, the senate, and the street corner, is inappreciable in America. There is no need of its cultivation among us, for fluency seems to be a national gift. From the slow dropping chat of the provoking but ton-holder, to the prolonged and rotund tumidities of the stump orator-everything can be achieved by a harangue. It is a fearful facility of speech! Men of genius talk the results of their own experi ence and reflection. Men of talent talk the results of other men's minds: and thus, in a country where there are few habitual students,-where there are few professed authors,-where all are mere writers, where there is, in fact, scarcely the seedling germ of a national literature, we are in danger of becoming mere telegraphs of opinion, as ignorant of the full meaning of the truths we convey as are the senseless wires of the electric words which thrill and sparkle through their iron veins.

It is not surprising, then, that the mass of American reading consists of newspapers and novels;that nearly all our good books are imported and reprinted; that, with a capacity for research and composition quite equal to that of England, our men become editors instead of authors. No man but a well paid parson, or a millionaire, can indulge in the expensive delights of amateur authorship. Thus it is that Sue is more read than Scott. Thus it is that the intense literature of the weekly newspapers is so prosperous, and that the laborer, who longs to mingle cheaply the luxuries of wealth. health, and knowledge, purchases, on his way homeward, with his pay in his pocket, on Saturday night, a lottery ticket, a Sunday newspaper, and a dose of quack physie, so that he has the chance of winning body and amusing his mind, without losing a day a fortune by Monday, whilst he is purifying his from his customary toil!

In this way we trace downward from the mer chant and the literary man to the mechanic, the prevailing notion in our country of necessary devo tion to labor as to a dreary task, without respite or relaxation. This is the expansive illustration of Mr. Legare's idea, that no man must get, in America, the repute of being "bookish.” And yet, what would become of the world without these derided "bookish" men?-these recorders of history-these developers of science-these philosophers-these writers of fiction-these thousand scholars who are continually adding by almost imperceptible contributions to the knowledge and wealth of the world! Some there are, who, in their day and generation, indeed appear to be utterly useless;-men who seem to be literary idlers, and yet, whose works tell upon the world in the course of ages. Such was the charac

ter of the occupations of Atticus, in Rome, and of Horace Walpole, in England. Without Atticus,the elegant scholar, who stood aloof from the noisy eontests of politics and cultivated letters,-we should never have had the delicious correspondence addressed to him by Cicero. Without the vanity, selfishness, avarice, and dilettantism of Walpole, we should never have enjoyed that exquisite mosaicwork of history, wit, anecdote, character and incident, which he has left us in the letters addressed to his various friends. Too idle for a sustained work, too gossiping for the serious strain that would have excluded the malice, scandal, and small talk of his compositions, he adopted the easy chat of familiar epistles, and converted his correspondence into an intellectual curiosity shop whose relics are now becoming of inestimable value to a posterity which is greedy for details.

No character is to be found in history that unites in itself so many various and interesting objects as that of the friend of Atticus. Cicero was a student, a scholar, a devoted friend of art, and, withal, an eminent "man of business." He was at home in the Tusculum and the Senate. It was supposed, in his day, that a statesman should be an accomplished main. It was the prevailing sentiment, that polish did not impair strength. It was believed that the highest graces of oratory-the most effective wisdom of speech, the conscientious advice of patriotic oratory, could only be expected from a zealous student who had exhausted the experience of the world without the dread of being "bookish." It was the opinion that cultivation and business moved hand in hand,-and that Cicero could criticise the texture of a papyrus, the grain and chiselling of a statue, or the art of a picture, as well as the foreign and domestic relations of Rome. Taste, architecture, morals, poetry, oratory, gems, rare manuscripts, curious collections, government, popular favor, all, in turn, engaged his attention, and, for all, he displayed a remarkable aptitude. No man thought he was less a "business man" because he filled his dwelling with groups of eloquent marble; because he bought and read the rarest books; because he chose to mingle only with the best and most intellectual society; because he shunned the demagogue and never used his arts even to suppress crime! Cicero would have been Cicero had he never been consul. Place gave nothing to him but the chance to save his country. It can bestow no fame; for fame is won by the qualities that should win place; whilst place is too often won by the tricks that should condemn the practicer. It were well, both on the score of accomplishment and of personal biography, that our own statesmen would recollect the history of a man whose books and orations will endear him to a posterity which will scarcely know that he was a ruler in Rome!

SAMUEL TYLER.

SAMUEL TYLER was born 22d October, 1809, in Prince George's County, Maryland. His father, Grafton Tyler, is a tobacco planter and farmer, and resides on the plantation where Samuel was born, and where his ancestors have dwelt for several generations. Samuel received his early education at a school in the neighborhood, and subsequently at the seminary of Dr. Carnahan at George Town, in the District of Columbia. The Doctor, soon afterwards, was elected President of Princeton College in New Jersey, and the Rev. James M'Vean became his successor. The Latin and Greek languages and their literatures were

the studies which were at once the pleasure and the business of this instructor's life. Inspired with his teacher's enthusiasm, the young Tyler became a pupil worthy of his master. So fascinated was he with Greek literature, that for the last year he remained at this school he devoted fourteen hours out of every twenty-four to the study, until the Greek forms of expression became as familiar as those of his native tongue.

In 1827 Mr. Tyler passed a short time at Middlebury College, Vermont. Returning to Maryland, he entered himself as a student of law in the office in Frederick City of John Nelson, since Attorney-General of the United States, and now a distinguished member of the Baltimore bar. The Frederick bar had, for many years, been distinguished for its learning and ability; and therefore Frederick City was considered the best law school in Maryland. Cases were tried in the Frederick Court after the most technical rules of practice, as much so as at any time in Westminster Hall. The present Chief-Justice of the United States, Mr. Taney, built up his professional character at the Frederick bar, and stepped from it to the first place at the bar of Baltimore city.

Mr. Tyler was admitted to the bar in 1831, and has continued to reside, in the prosecution of his profession, in Frederick city, as affording more leisure for the indulgence of his literary pursuits than a large city, where the practice of his profession would be likely to engross his whole time. An article on Balfour's Inquiry into the Doctrine of Universal Salvation," in the Princeton Review for July, 1836, was the beginning of Mr. Tyler's authorship. In the Princeton Review for July, 1840, he published an article on the Baconian Philosophy; and in the same journal for July, 1841, an article on Leuhart the mathematician. In the Princeton Review for April, 1843, Mr. Tyler published an article on Psychology, followed by other papers; in July of the same year, on the Influence of the Baconian Philosophy; in October, 1844, on Agricultural Chemistry, in review of Liebig; July, 1845, on the Connexion between Philosophy and Revelation; July, 1846, on Bush on the Soul; and in the number for July, 1852, an article on Humboldt's Cosmos. Mr. Tyler is the author of the article on Whately's Logic in the number of the American Quarterly Review published immediately before that journal was merged in the New York Review. He also wrote the article on Brougham's Natural Theology and that on Rauch's Psychology in the Baltimore Literary and Religious Magazine, edited by Dr. R. J. Breckinridge.

In 1844 Mr. Tyler published the first, and in 1846 the second edition of his Discourse of the Baconian Philosophy. This work has received the approbation of eminent thinkers and men of science in America, and has been signalized by the approbation of Sir William Hamilton.

In 1848 Mr. Tyler published in New York Burns as a Poet and as a Man, of which one or more editions have appeared in Great Britain.

A convention of delegates elected by the people of Maryland, assembled in 1850 to frame a new Constitution for the state. The subject of reforming the laws was a matter that engaged much of the consideration of the body. Amongst other things, it was proposed to incorporate in